


En pointe

by darkandstormyslash



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, ballet dancer eames, boxer/ballet dancer AU, inadvisable sexual decisions, kickboxer arthur, mild drug use, sad robert fischer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: Eames is a ballet dancer who didn't even want to get dragged along to a kickboxing fight. Arthur is a PhD student who spends his time kickboxing and disappointing his family. Robert Fisher didn't ask for any of this. Cobb would like people to please stop shooting at him.It's another Inception AU! Split POV and some steamy scenes. Enjoy.





	1. Should you be doing that?

**Arthur**

Arthur is in the middle of a group seminar when he gets the text from Cobb. He pulls out his phone, ignoring everyone else in the room, and glances down at the screen.

<I’m trying my best but I don’t think he’ll make it. Turn up at 7>.

“Shit.” Arthur says it out loud without even realising and glances up to see the supervisor looking at him slightly askance.

“Is everything alright Arthur?”

“My aunt just got sent to hospital.” Arthur lies easily, sliding his phone back into his bag. He needs to get out of here. There’s no way he can discuss grammatical gender in Ovid’s Metamorphoses in his current state. “Sorry, do you mind if I …?”

The supervisor and a few of his fellow PhD students shuffle obligingly out of the way to let him through. Arthur scoots out as quickly as he can then pauses outside the door, at a bit of a loss as to what to do next. Ideally he wants to hit something, but Saito always closes the dojo early on show nights precisely to prevent people like Arthur stupidly wrecking themselves before a match.

A match Arthur has been training for, for the last six weeks. A match that now, if Cobb’s text is to be believed, his opponent is not going to show up for.

Arthur heads back to his room instead, prowling around it and texting Cobb back, <If he does show up I’ll break his face>.

A few seconds later the phone beeps again <This is why I can never find you opponents>.

Arthur scowls, sitting down in front of his laptop and staring at the screen. He has a few hours now, he could actually get some work done. Finish his next supervision report, get ahead with his seminar presentation, maybe even read some of the texts he’s meant to be analysing. His father is paying a fair amount of money for him to do a PhD overseas in the UK, rather than staying in Massachusetts and actually taking on some of the family business. He was unhappy enough about Arthur leaving to study, he’d probably be even less happy to find out that Arthur _wasn’t_ studying, but instead was spending his evenings taking part in unsavoury show-fights for a small time drug dealer.

He stares at the computer for a few moments, then picks up his phone again <Fine. Joel pulled out. So find someone else for me to fight>.

There’s no response from Cobb, but Arthur knows the answer already. Most of the other guys at Cobb’s gym/Saito’s dojo are far bigger than him. He needs an opponent that matches his weight and Arthur doesn’t have much weight on him. No matter how much Arthur protests, Cobb’s lax attitude toward rules never seems to apply when he’s organising fights or matching opponents.

 

**Eames**

The only reason I let Yusef drag me along to this damn stupid boxing show is because Bobby objects to it. See in the last month me and Bobby Fischer have been spending a lot of time together and while I love the guy he does occasionally get just a bit grating. We’re currently touring _Swan Lake_ around the country, and the nights I’m not performing he’ll drag me out to some posh-as-fuck hotel or swanky bar without even asking what I want to eat. It felt a bit satisfying when he started his “Oh by the way Eames turn up at the Dorchester Hotel at 7pm” for me to be able to turn it down for once instead of just falling into line.

“Can’t Bobby, sorry. Me and Yusef are going to a kickboxing show.”

His mouth turns down and I get a pretty little princess pout. “A _kickboxing_ show?”

“Yeah. In town. You can come if you like.” He won’t come.

“Why would I want to watch a kickboxing show?” He scowls, a bit suspicious, “Why do _you_ want to watch a kickboxing show.”

“Might be fun.” I shrug, then finish off stretching for the evening. Always stretch fully after a rehearsal, no matter how many posh sulking set-designers I have watching me. “Bit of energy, you know. I’ve been feeling a bit flat lately. Feels like I’m doing the same damn dance every night.”

“You _are_ doing the same damn dance every night.” He snaps, channelling his old man a bit there.

“I shouldn’t be though.” I finish stretching and tug on my hoodie, hiding a grin as I watch his eyes following me hungrily. I honestly don’t know why he hasn’t made a move on me yet, he’s clearly well up for it and he’s bought me enough food to tide over a small local famine. Maybe he’s still plucking up the courage, maybe he’s worried I’ll turn him down. I’m honestly not sure myself that I wouldn’t. “Should be different every night. Same moves, same music, but a different _dance_. Each time it needs to be new.”

“So you’re going to watch kickboxing.” He says, still sounding pretty sour about it. “You won’t enjoy it.”

“I might.”

“You won’t. I’ll be at the Dorchester if you want food after.”

“I’ll get a kebab on the way home.” It’s so easy to wind Bobby up sometimes it almost seems unsporting. He looks like a kicked puppy at the best of times, but right now he looks like a puppy that got kicked on its birthday so I take a bit of pity on him, “Might swing by afterwards for some champagne if you get it in.”

“I’m not going to spend all evening hanging around at the Dorchester on my own on the off-chance that you show up wanting champagne.” He mutters under his breath. He knows he will though. I know he will too. See what I mean, he’s a lovely bloke but it’s a bit … needy. Not very attractive that. I probably shouldn’t take advantage of it quite as much as I do, but a blokes got to eat. I could spend my own money I suppose, but where's the fun in that?

Yeah I’m not proud of how I treat Bobby Fischer. But it’s bloody addictive.

Thing is though, he’s right about one thing; I go along to this kickboxing show and I really don’t enjoy it. I’m not averse to a bit of hot man-on-man action from big sweaty blokes, but watching some lad get the shit kicked out of him surrounded by people baying for blood, that leaves me cold. I make some excuse about needing the bogs and shuffle out mid-way through, looking for a place I can have a quick smoke.

The show is in some underground club-type place because I swear what’s going on is only barely legal. I end up wandering around empty corridors and through doors until I push through a swing door and into a small kitchenette with benches down one end and a skinny bloke in full kickboxing gear beating the shit out of a grubby mattress at the other end.

“Hey.” he whirls around and I put my hands up making sure the door is behind me. “Looking for the way out?”

He glares at me, inclines his head sharply in what could be any direction, and goes back to the mattress. I sit down on the benches and pull out a little baggie and some rizlers.

“Mind if I?”

He turns around again to look at me. He looks pissed off, but not at me – or rather it looks like he’s annoyed that I've interrupted him being pissed off. To my surprise though, he comes over and collapses down on the bench. “Only if you share.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Should you be doing that? If you’re fighting?”

“I’m not fighting.” Yeah he sounds pissed off alright. I’m not about to withhold weed from a pissed off bloke who can kick through a mattress so I pull out another rizler and twist one up for him. “The guy I was going to fight didn’t show up.”

I light up and hand it across, watching as he takes a deep inhale of it. He’s all lean muscle and irritated sharpness and I must admit I am finding that a bit interesting if you know what I mean. I’ve spent so much time around flamboyant ballet dancers and puppy-dog set designers it feels a bit different. There’s an energy inside him, wound up so tight in his body he’s almost vibrating. “That’s a bummer.”

“Not what I needed today.” He blows smoke up at the ceiling then gives me a sideways look, “What are you doing here anyway? You selling this shit?”

“Nah, this is for personal consumption only.” I say, after all there is the off-chance he’s police in disguise. Very unlikely disguise. “Just came here with a mate. I’m in town at the moment for a tour.”

“Band tour?” He gives a cute little wrinkle of his nose as the smoke hits it. He’s starting to calm down a bit now.

“Swan Lake.” He frowns like he has no idea what I’m talking about so I explain a little more. “Touring Ballet Company. We’re up at the performing arts college doing shows for the next two weeks, then we’ll move on.”

“Ballet?” I’m used to that response by now. I’m also bored and happy and sitting next to a hot topless bloke so I decide to show off a bit. I stand up, strip my shirt off, and do a few stretches. There isn’t much room in the little kitchenette but I get a bit of Act Two going on, plus a few showing off moves. It wouldn’t do much to impress anyone with a working knowledge of ballet but I’m banking on this lad not being all that up to date with his modern dance and fair enough he looks suitably impressed.

He gives a clap when I finish, which is decent, and then stands up himself. He prowls over - and he really does _prowl_ he’s all muscle and strength this one - and grabs a pair of skipping ropes slung over the mattress, handing them to me. “How many can you do in a row?”

“Four hundred on a good day?”

There are two pairs of ropes. I adjust the length of mine and he stands opposite me, tapping them against the floor. I don’t know if it’s the weed or the fact we’re both now full of energy but the tension is fucking _thrumming_. I haven’t felt this erotically charged in about five years, and I’m really hoping he feels the same because otherwise it’ll come as a massive surprise when I fling him up against that mattress and yank those little silk trousers off him. We check there’s enough room for both of us with ropes flying and he gives me a nod. “Ready?”

“Fucking ready.”

Skipping isn’t really a competitive sport. It’s a warm up for me by now, a bit humdrum and dull just to get my blood moving. I tell you it’s a completely different experience when facing across from a bloke you really want to have a tumble with and hoping you don’t trip over your own feet. I get to two hundred, then two fifty, and at two hundred and sixty seven his rope catches the edge of a cupboard and he trips with a “ _fuck_ ”.

He’s over, I’m on him, and he’s tearing me out of my trousers with eager unmatched ferocity. He’s had a fight in him all day, and it looks like I’m going to be on the receiving end of that. It occurs to me at about the time when I’m legs-up on the floor with my head pressed against the side of an oven that this isn’t the wisest idea I’ve ever had; what with not knowing who this bloke is or quite where I am, or whether the condom in my jacket pocket is still good to use. Any slight misgivings I’ve got, however, are overturned a few moments later when just as I’m about a second away from being fucked by a possibly violent psychopath with a potentially expired condom the fucking kitchenette door swings open and some bloke with floppy hair and a dinner jacket walks in and snaps, “Arthur! What the _hell_ are you doing?”

He would’ve been doing me, mate. He would’ve been doing me.


	2. Who the hell is this?

**Arthur**

Arthur has friends in Massachusetts that went to school with for over ten years, and yet somehow when he first arrived in England he's pretty sure Dom Cobb knew him better within an hour than anyone he knew back home. It was Dom who helped him settle in England, Dom who taught him the mysteries of the NHS, Dom who he called in a panic when his mother was taken into hospital, and Dom who wrapped awkward arms around him as the beautiful young law student he’d been seeing for a year vanished one night with a large chunk of his money and an even larger chunk of his heart. Dom just _gets_ people, and Arthur isn’t very used to being understood. 

It is for that reason alone, that when Cobb bursts into disused utility room while Arthur’s mid-fuck with a sexy ballet dancer, Arthur manages to resist the urge to tear his head open. “Arthur what the hell are you doing?”

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?”

“I’ve been looking for you for the last 20 minutes. Joel is here, he’s out there now, you’re meant to be there fighting him.”

“Joel is here _now_?” Arthur feels the sexual energy pounding through him. He wants nothing more than to send Cobb out the room and continue with the eager young man laid out underneath him, but it’s clear from Cobb’s face that isn’t going to happen. With a groan he pulls himself upright, yanking his shorts back up again, “I’m going to kill him.”

“Yes, you do that.” Cobb gives a slightly disgusted glance at Eames lying on the floor. “Who the hell is this?”

“Nobody, he was just here.” Arthur snaps, hurriedly re-wrapping his hands and giving Eames a rather shameful look, “Look – I have to go. It’s only ten minutes – will you still be here when I’m done?”

Eames looks flushed and unhappy and Arthur feels his heart go out to the guy a bit. Enough to help him find his shirt and murmur softly, “I’m sorry, really I am. I can, if you do want to stay here…”

“Yeah, probably not.” Eames replies, grabbing at his things and pushing past Cobb as he leaves. Arthur gives a groan and scrubs at his face with his hand.

“Your timing is _incredible_ Cobb, as always.”

Cobb rolls his eyes, pushing Arthur out of the room. “Hopefully that sexual energy will make up for the weed in your system. I’m not paying you to get high and live on grindr.”

With the sexual frustration pounding through him, it only takes two rounds to leave Joel staggering sideways, unable to continue. Arthur manages to force a tight fake looking smile for Cobb’s phone and then he’s out of the ring.

“Up at the arts college.” He snaps at Cobb as soon as he can get Cobb’s attention. “Are they doing a ballet thing?”

“Are they what?” Cobb looks at him like he’s gone mad. Arthur thinks between unbearable horniness and an adrenaline backwash he just about might be.

“Are they doing a ballet show?” He hisses into Cobb’s ear, “If they are I want tickets, and if you get me tickets I might just consider forgiving you for walking in on me.”

“A _ballet_ show?”

“Swan Lake.” Arthur suddenly remembers. Swan Lake, and the words come along with the image of a broad-build smirking man curving up his leg so that his shoe touched the back of his head. Arthur has always thought of ballet dancers as mincing little things in tutus but there was something quite spectacular about that raw strength and power, twisting up to make new and exciting shapes that burnt into his retinas.

He needs to wank _right now_.

 

**Eames**

I scoot out of that fucking kickboxing club as quickly as I can, face burning and pride stung. I know Bobby will be waiting at the Dorchester but suddenly I can’t face stumbling through the doors like his pet badly-behaved peasant, watching his face all disapproving but eagerly salacious to hear what I’ve been through.

I head back to the hotel instead and sit in my room with the window cranked open getting through the rest of my little baggie of weed. By the time I’ve got to the end of it most of my feelings have merged into relief. It would’ve been a bloody stupid thing to go through with, and honestly I could’ve come away with any disease from crabs to septicaemia from scraping myself against the floor.

I’m in no state for rehearsals the next day, and the boss rightly chews me out for it. I take the day off, wander around town feeling morose, then get myself an early night and snap back into it for the final dress rehearsal. Then we’re away because once the show starts there’s not much time for anything except dancing and sleeping. It’s a good state to be in, almost meditative, where the rest of the world all fades out and it’s just a continuous high-powered panic of _go go go_.

I try to use a bit of it as well: that feeling I got when skipping in the manky kichenette of a sordid little illegal underground club. The feeling when strong fierce arms yanked my jeans out the way, the feeling of grasping muscle under my hands. I try to put that into the dances, grab a little bit harder at the Prince during the _pas de deux_ , get a bit of fighting energy into it.

The Prince is more like Bobby though, if I’m being honest – all insecure worried little rich boy, trapped under the hefty personality of his parents. Nothing like that crazy mad kickboxer that almost fucked me.

Bobby’s a gem, he really is. He’s got fuck all to do now the show has started, short of making sure none of the set actively falls down while we’re bouncing around on it. He buys me coffee, watches me stretching, and lets me give him a bit of a grope during the post-performance high after all the applause has died down. I don’t tell him about my little incident with a kickboxer and he rather charitably doesn’t let on how long he waited at The Dorchester before giving up on me.

So it’s same old business as usual until the fourth performance, when I come back to my changing room and find said crazy mad kickboxer there waiting for me, along with the bloke in a dinner jacket who interrupted our attempted coitus and a really pissed off looking Bobby Fischer.

And the moment I see him I know I’m fucked, because there’s nothing I want to do more than fling him down onto the floor and pick things up exactly where we left off.


	3. Can we go now?

**Arthur**

It’s not the first time Arthur has been to a ballet performance, but it’s the first time he’s been actively interested. He remembers being dragged along to a few when younger under his mother’s well-intentioned hope that watching culture would be good for him. This is the first time he’s actually wanted to watch it.

Cobb is very much not interested, and makes it clear in a low grade mumble before the show, during the interval, and for a significant proportion of the actual performance. Arthur doesn’t mind so much because there’s no actual talking involved in the ballet show, just dancing. He can watch that no matter what Cobb is muttering at him, particularly when Eames is onstage because when Eames is dancing Arthur can’t hear anything anyone is saying, just the music and a rushing in his ears.

Eames looks beautiful; more beautiful than a man poncing around a stage ought to look. Because it isn’t _poncing,_ not really. Ballet has clearly changed since the days of Arthur’s childhood, instead of twittering frilly skirts this performance is all sleek white costumes, modern sleezy settings, and dark leather trousers. Eames is both the white swan in the first half and the dark swan in the second, and to both performances he brings a coiled muscular power. By the end of the performance, as the Prince and Swan lie locked in a mutual death embrace, Arthur feels like he’s run a marathon. It’s the same dizzying exultant high he gets before a fight, the swooping almost-falling sensation when the world is a dazzling place just waiting to be changed.

“Can we go now?” Cobb snaps from next to him.

Arthur’s background of culture and privilege has not been entirely wasted. He’s learnt enough to manage to blag his way into places he is not supposed to be, which is why he’s able to drag Cobb backstage to a dressing room he’s assured belongs to Eames. There’s no Eames present as yet, just an awkward looking young man in an off-white poloneck and long thin scarf who scowls at them.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

“We’re here to meet Eames?” Arthur asks, while Cobb rolls his eyes and sighs. “He asked to see us after the show.”

“Eames asked to see you?”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Arthur asks mildly. This man might be unhappy with them but Arthur can tell he has no real power to remove them. Sure enough all he gets is another scowl and then they wait in awkward silence for Eames to appear.

 

**Eames**

So I turn up in my dressing room still high from the performance and immediately everything gets incredibly awkward. I want to get rid of Bobby, and I damn well want to get rid of the other unnecessary dude, but it seems a bit rude just to tell them to sod off. Added to which we have to go through this whole dumb performance where they pretend they liked the ballet, and I sign their tickets, and Bobby pretends he doesn’t want to scratch anyone’s eyes out, and it’s bloody awkward. Then my kickboxing stalker turns to his mate and goes, “Cobb, didn’t you want to see the … uh … backstage.”

Subtle. I look at Bobby and apologetically jerk my head at the door. “Go on Bobby, eh?”

Bobby gives me a blank dead-eyed stare and gets off out of it along with the other third wheel, and then me and kickboxer scoot into my dressing room and lock the door.

There are things I should’ve done first, I know. Made a bit more small talk, had a Serious Discussion about what we got up to the other day, or maybe just asked for his name. None of that happens though, because he gets his arms wrapped around me with the same frantic energy as back in his little kitchenette.  I attach my lips to his and back him right up into my dressing room table. “I-I am so damn glad I found you again.” he gasps which makes me feel good but also a little spooked because I’m wondering just how far he’s actually been stalking me.

He sits up on the dresser and watches as I peel out of my white fluffy trousers from the final act. I’ve still got the swan makeup on my face, all white powder except for one dark black line that starts under my hairline and slides down my nose. It probably looks daft as hell, but he gives a groan and wraps his arms around me as soon as I’m naked, tugging me close. “You better have another condom.”

It’s a gay ballet dancer’s dressing room, mate, practically _swimming_ in condoms.

He gets his trousers out of the way and rolls one on and I go and to double check the door is locked because the last thing I want is someone interrupting us again. I certainly wouldn’t put it past Bobby to barge in unannounced. He’s sitting on my dresser still, like a sharp little semi-naked pixie, his legs all slender hard muscle and his face thin and interested. There’s a bruise on his arm from training and I come over and gently kiss it, then turn myself around and grab a bottle of lube.

“Ready?”

“I’ve been ready for the last _week_.”

I’m on him. A few gasping painful minutes of logistics where we get it lined up and _fuckfuckow_ and then he’s in, and I’m panting as I lower myself down onto his lap. My hands are gripping the sides of the dressing table and I’m staring slightly cross-eyed at the poster of Richard Winsor tacked to the back wall for inspiration. I’d rather be staring at my kickboxer to be honest, but we haven’t thought through the practicalities of this. I can certainly hear him, and that’s more than enough.

I rest myself down, ignoring the ache in my thighs which are not that happy to be still working after doing a full performance. I should get us in a bed next time, more comfortable all round. His hands press against my hips and tug them a bit, wanting me to start moving. Demanding thing, he is. I do it though, with a bit of a groan at first because neither my hips, my legs, or frankly my arse are quite ready for it yet, but it feels bloody good when I do.

“Eames…” he gasps out, which reminds me I don’t actually know his name yet.

I keep moving, bobbing myself up and down on his cock while he leans back and moans. It’s getting a bit loud, and I’m just about to remind him that this isn’t the most soundproof construction in the world when he suddenly pushes himself forward, grabs at the back of my neck, and bodily bends me over.

Fuck me he’s strong. Not sure which of us would win if it came down to it. He’d win a fight, sure enough, but even if we were just pushing against each other it might be a close call.

I reach out and the dressing room’s small enough that my hands are almost at the wall. He’s thrusting into me like a fucking piston from behind, god it’s been a while since my insides got this well rearranged. He’s moaning out my name, I’m gasping and panting, he’s getting louder and louder and suddenly there’s a _bang_ from somewhere outside and I jump so violently I think I actually injure his cock.

Fucking _gunshot_. Why is there gunshot?

He’s still bent in half with a bit of a whimpering noise, but he shoots upright as there’s a _second_ gunshot, hopping around hissing in pain while trying to get his trousers up. I grab the robe from the hook on my door and wrap it around me quickly, staggering out of the dressing room and yelping “What the _fuck_ was that!”

There’s people all over the place running around in a panic. Bobby suddenly materialises next to me shaking and jabbering into his phone, “Performing Arts College, Ridgeway. Somebody’s here with a gun, there have been two shots. No, nobody's injured, not yet, how soon can you get here?”

My kickboxer pushes past me, fully dressed now if still wincing a little. “Cobb, where’s Cobb?”

Who’s Cobb?

“I don’t know where he went!” Bobby snaps, his voice a good deal higher than usual, strung out on fear and anger “We were walking past the lecture hall and somebody shot at us!”

I whirl around, feeling a bit angry myself. My cock’s led me into daft situations before, but never into active danger, “Is your friend _Cobb_ out there shooting a gun?”

“No.” The kickboxer snaps back, “My friend Cobb’s mad ex-wife is out there, shooting a gun at him.”

Bobby turns on me looking fucking furious.

Honestly, he's got pretty good reason to be.


	4. Is this somehow my fault?

**Arthur**

Arthur doesn’t like being around policemen at the best of times. Horny and worried with a painfully aching cock and far too many of Cobb’s secrets to hide is not the best of times. He tries to keep his statement as brief as possible.

Yes, he heard a shot. No, he didn’t know who fired it. Yes, he came with a friend. No, he does not know where that friend is now.

“What were you doing at the time you heard the gunfire?” The policeman asks.

Arthur hesitates for barely a second before answering smoothly. “I was getting an autograph from the lead performer.”

The signed ticket is produced as proof.

He calls Cobb as soon as he’s free, although Cobb sensibly isn’t answering his phone. Arthur tries his room, Cobb’s flat, and finally tracks him down at Saito’s dojo, crouching miserably next to a bench and doing something frantic on his phone.

“Mal?” Arthur asks.

“Mal.” Cobb confirms.

“She’s still trying to kill you?”

“I don’t think she was shooting to miss.” Cobb snaps back sounding angry as Arthur crouches down next to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Is this somehow my fault?”

Cobb glares at him, waving his phone in Arthur’s face. “She’s tracking my credit card, she saw I bought those ballet tickets. Thanks to you I was stuck in one easily accessible public place for three hours and then wandered off on my own with only some random designer for protection. All so you could have a booty call.”

“It wasn’t a booty call.” Arthur replies, “And it’s your own fault for using your card. Since when do you use a card?”

“For any purchases that count as legal.” Cobb gives a groan, leaning back and resting his head against the benches. “It isn’t your fault. She’s been after me ever since the train job went south.”

Arthur shifts to sit next to him, glancing around the dojo to check they’re really alone. Cobb isn’t always very discrete, particularly when he’s panicking. “Can’t you pay her off?”

“She doesn’t want money, she wants me dead.” Cobb sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m starting to think I need to get out of here. Disappear for a bit.”

“You can’t do that…” _What about me_ , Arthur thinks, but changes it to, “What about Saito, and the business, and the gym? You’ve got a good thing going here – with the fights and the drugs and everything. You don’t want to throw all that away.”

“Mal is trying to _shoot me_.” Cobb still looks pretty angry about Arthur, “The best thing I can do is get out of here. The second best thing would be getting out of here with you, to run the business for Saito somewhere else.”

Arthur nods, “That would work, except I’m in the middle of a PhD here. I can’t just up and move.”

He can’t help but think of Eames as well – and how much better it would be to stay in the place Eames is. But Eames is part of a touring show, he’ll be moving on soon as well. Losing Eames, losing Cobb, and suddenly Arthur feels a deep and desperate despite to throw the entire PhD away and just travel around the country doing dirty underground fights, shagging Eames, and helping Cobb sell drugs.

“Fuck your PhD, it’s not like you do any work for it.” Cobb grouches at him.

“Yeah.” Arthur leans back next to him and closes his eyes, “Fuck it.”

 

**Eames**

The show is cancelled the next evening. The police are still swarming around like flies on a turd and I’m pretty sure no members of the paying public are willing to travel to a venue with a live shooting. The least I can do for Bobby is turn up at the Dorchester, in the poshest suit I own with my hair slicked back and a shiny pair of cufflinks.

Bobby orders the food for us and I try my best to look vaguely ashamed about the whole deal. I have to say though, I’m actually feeling a bit wired up on it all. It was quite exciting having policemen scurrying around the place, taking statements from everyone and carefully writing down exactly how many inches of kickboxer I had inside me when the gun went off. Bit different from the daily grind. Which means that although I’m making polite small talk with Bobby all I can think about is how it would feel if it was the kickboxing bloke sat here with me. Not _here_ though, obviously. I can’t afford this sort of place. Maybe a burger bar. Maybe he’d give me that sharp unimpressed little look he has, eyebrows raised, _you think just because I’m an American I only want to eat burgers?_ Maybe he’d bend me over the table and spank my arse right in front of everyone, hand on the back of my neck like it was when he fucked me.

“Eames.” Bobby snaps, “Are you even listening to me?”

Course I’m not. I’m lost in a pretty exciting fantasy here.

“Eames you can’t get involved in this kind of business. I mean the weed is one thing but this … I was almost _shot_ Eames.”

The only thing worse than Bobby Fischer being annoyed at me for the wrong reasons is Bobby Fischer being annoyed at me when he’s right. I know I need to give him something, so I reach over and pat his leg, making my voice low and contrite, “I know, Bobby, I know. I was a very naughty boy and I overstepped the mark. Won’t do it again.”

Bobby goes a rather nice pink sort of colour and starts stuttering. Fantasies aside, I’m probably never going to see my feisty little boxer again. The last time I saw him I almost broke his dick and killed his mate, also I don’t know his name or anything about him. Once again I try and turn the disappointment into something like relief. It’s probably for the best that it ended, even if we never did get a proper shag out of it. 

I eat up, Bobby pays up, and then we stumble out of the Dorchester a little bit tipsy on good champagne. I have my hand around his waist and I start thinking that all in all I could do a lot worse than Bobby Fischer. Slowly, I move my hand down to his backside and give a bit of a squeeze. He squirms as I get a good handful of him, skinny little arse like his I can practically grab half of it in one hand. I dig my fingers in nice and tight and try to banish impossible fantasies from my mind. Maybe it’s time to stick with the possible.

“Eames…” he wriggles and giggles a bit. I wrap my other hand around him and grab the other side of his arse. Two handfuls just about covers it, and I squeeze both down hard and separate them a little, let him feel it. He whimpers and falls into my chest. I’m not that tall myself but he’s a proper little shortarse. I nuzzle at one sharp cheekbone then start necking him a bit, my fingers working their way slowly between his arse to try and find the sweet little entrance through his smart suit trousers.

“E-eames we can’t…” he gasps out. “My father…”

Those words stop me cold, and then I can’t help but laugh. God I’m a bastard. My hands move off him and he gives a pout as I stroke the back of his head.

“Bobby, c’mon. ‘We can’t … my father’, that’s the sort of thing you say when you’re curled up on the couch with your boyfriend at sweet sixteen with your dad working in the study upstairs. Not when you’re twenty-five years old getting a quick smooch behind a restaurant.”

“He can never find out…” Bobby whimpers.

“How the fuck would he ever find out?”

Poor Bobby Fischer, just can’t escape from his old man. I’ve met the bigoted old bastard myself a couple of times. He’s from fairly humble backgrounds, dragged his way up to the moneyed elite by the sheer force of his own personality. He forced Bobby through every chance in life he never had himself and as a result Bobby is a faded uncertain little thing stuck in his father’s shadow. He’s desperate to try and please the old man, terrified he never will, and utterly unsure about what to do to make his dad proud. He doesn’t realise, of course, that the thing that’ll make him proudest is for Bobby to stand on his own two feet and make his own decisions for once. It’s a constant push-and-pull between them, where Fischer-the-elder tries to push into Bobby taking a stand, and Bobby keeps folding underneath him because he thinks it’s what the man wants.

Bobby is looking bloody miserable again, so I sigh and wrap an arm around his shoulder, tugging him so he can rest his head against me. “We should never go out Bobby, it would be a disaster.”

“Would it?” Says Bobby’s wistful little voice as I stagger us both in the direction of the college.

“Yeah, course it would. We’d drive each other up the wall. Besides which I don’t do well in a closet.”

There’s silence for a while. I’m trying to do it properly – having mucked around with Bobby enough I feel it’s only right to turn him down with a proper poetic speech. I’m trying to work Swan Lake into it; something about how you can fall for the white swan but in reality you end up with the black swan who’s just a sleazeball in leather trousers and it’ll all end in tragedy, yada yada. Before I can get it all properly marshalled into a proper speech though there’s a sulky little mutter from my shoulder.

“Arthur.”

“Hmm?”

“His name is Arthur. That _man_ you want to fuck. Cobb told me.”

That puts an end to any half-formed poetic swan thoughts. I’ve been trying all evening to pretend that I no longer give a damn about my kickboxer, but the minute I hear his name I can feel my excitement and libido roaring back into life. I still have no idea how to contact him, or whether he wants me, or who he is, but at least now I have a name.

Arthur.

It’s a start.


	5. Where are u?

**Arthur**

Arthur wants to see Eames again. It’s pretty much the only thing he feels he _wants_ to do in his life right now. Training is effort, his PhD is effort for no reward, but Eames feels like something he can look forward to.

The problem is he isn’t sure how to contact Eames. He can’t go back to the college because it’s swarming with policemen and he doesn’t have Eames’s number. He halfheartedly stalks Eames on facebook for a while, but his page is full of dance awards and sensible family photos and about as far away from what Arthur knows about Eames as possible. Eames clearly has a well maintained public face, and Arthur isn’t even sure if he’d _accept_ a friend request from someone whose profile consists of aggressive immature political comments and drunk photos.

He hangs around the city centre instead hoping he might bump into Eames somewhere, but he isn’t at nightclubs, or gay bars, or cheap burger chains. He isn’t even on grindr. Arthur goes back to his room and keeps Eames’s picture-perfect online profile up on one side of his screen and tries to type something for his thesis on the other side without getting distracted.

He still doesn’t properly have a thesis title. He’s been batting some ideas around with his supervisor about ‘The changing portrayal of masculine erotic love in Classical Literature’ which is the closest he feels he can come to titling his thesis ‘Dad, I’m gay.’ He has a cork moodboard on the wall peppered with images of Grecian athletes, Roman statues and various erotic depictions and poetry snatches but apart from occasionally using it to masturbate he hasn’t felt any inspiration from it so far.

At some point, Arthur knows, he’s going to have to either pay an illegal ghost-writer to type the thing or admit to himself that the entire England PhD Experiment has been a huge waste of time and money. The likelihood of him writing anything himself is very slim.

In a moment of mad frustration he sends a facebook message to Eames’s picture-perfect public profile containing nothing but his phone number. He stares at it for a while then shuts his computer, switches off his phone, and spends the rest of the day beating up the heavy bag at Saito’s dojo until his arms feel like lead weights.

 

**Eames**

Have you ever tried to use the internet to find a guy based only on his first name and a semi-illegal profession? I’m no good at that sort of shit at all, so I asked Yusef to do it. The day after I turn Bobby Fischer down by groping him and then running off to wank over another man I get all Arthur’s legal details, and a fair few of his illegal ones, all in a neat little folder.

Yusef is my bad influence. He’s technically employed as my PA which is a right laugh because he’s not much more than a small time conman who finds me weed. He sorts out my diary and shit, sends my mum flowers on her birthday, all the usual PA stuff, but mostly he’s there to get me in trouble and find me soft drugs. The whole PA gig means we both get a salary for the price of me prancing around in tights and that suits us both fine.

Arthur is … _not_ what I expected.

I think in my head I was building up some kind of grungy rough fighting trailer-trash fantasy. When I open the folder it’s a bit of a shock to be confronted with a glossy photo of him in a full three-piece suit at some posh business do. Yusef's got me the details of his college degrees, his family business (his family has a _business_ ), his father’s multiple houses, his sisters 5-star white wedding, the whole works. I actually have to go back to the front of the folder and state at the picture for a while just to confirm it’s actually him and not some other kickboxing kid called Arthur that Yusef stalked by mistake.

Is it just something about me? Do I always attract rich wankers with Daddy issues? Fucks sake.

Not only does this one have a big rich possibly-homophobic daddy with the ability to hire a hit man, he also appears to be mixed up in some rather dubious stuff this side of the pond as well. That needs a bit of thought. I don’t mind having a fling with a random piece of rough, but now it turns out that _I’m_ the piece of rough being flung with I’m feeling a bit less keen. I’ve got a career, got the next few gigs sorted, even starting to arrange a future selling dancing equipment and shit when I retire and I’m enough of a coward to stay away from stuff that might be potentially dangerous and difficult to get myself out of.

I’m still not sure how I’m feeling when my phone beeps with a facebook message. It’s Arthur, naturally, because I’m not the only one stalking. Mind you his facebook page is worlds away from Yusef's folder. It’s a typical drunk dumb student page and that calms me down a bit.

After all, I’ll be moving out in a week. Maybe a few more performances once the police panic dies down and then we’ll be hot-footing it to Liverpool and the odds are I’ll never see him again.

Would a few fucks really be that dangerous?

I stick his number into my phone and stare at it for a bit. I’m this close to sending him my address and just telling him to come over, but then I remember my place is now crawling with policemen who he probably wants to keep away with.

Instead I send him a text <Where are u?>

No reply, and I’m already cursing myself for being too eager. Still. No game, no foul. I head to the studio instead and do some of the actual work I’m paid for. The boss wants us back on tomorrow evening so everyone’s in there making sure we’re in full running condition. I do a bit of practicing with The Prince, walking through the steps, we know it all backwards. Everyone‘s smirking at me a bit, because by now the rumour has spread that I was getting dicked by a fan at the time of the shooting.

Don’t blame Bobby for spreading that one. He could’ve been a lot more vicious without losing the moral high ground if I’m honest.

I get to the end of my workout and my phones beeping at me again. It’s Arthur’s number and he’s sent an address. Bloody hell, he’s not very talkative on social media is he? The address is some student flat from the university and it makes me feel pretty damn sordid I’ve got to say. Especially now I know he’s not some awkward dumb yank out for a quick fuck, but instead an entitled snotty college brat wanting a booty call.

I’m going through. _Course_ I’m going.


	6. Still alive there, darling?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning in this chapter for graphic sex and a wee bit of bad bdsm etiquette.

**Arthur**

Arthur sends the text in the gym and then immediately feels stupid. He didn’t ask if Eames was free, whether Eames was even interested, just sent an address which he has no idea whether Eames will want to visit. Still, so far their relationship has survived exclusively on a strong desire to fuck each other. Maybe at the moment that's enough.

He heads back to his flat and opens his computer, staring at the blank screen. He opens a word document and manages two grudging, badly written paragraphs about Ovid before there’s a cautious little knock on the door.

And _then_ is when Arthur realises his room is a tip and he’s still in his workout clothes and hasn’t had a shower.

He walks to the door in a bit of a daze, opening it and blinking at Eames standing behind it in a tracksuit. “Eames.”

“Arthur.”

Eames has found out his name. Arthur wonders if it was on the ticket.

Arthur takes a step back to allow Eames into the room. He watches as Eames’s eyes rake around, taking in the piles of unwashed clothes, the dishes still balancing in the sink, the unmade bed, the careless stacks of unread books, and finally the classical homoerotic mood board. His mouth quirks up into a smirk.

“This is _not_ what I expected from a Harvard graduate.”

Eames knows about him. He doesn’t know how, but Eames knows about him. Arthur keeps his face politely blank so none of his panic shows. “Good surprise? Bad surprise?”

“Unwelcome surprise.” Eames murmurs. His eyes flicker back to Arthur and his nose wrinkles a little. “You’ve been working out?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, just steps forward and grabs at the front of Eames’s tracksuit bottoms, tugging him forward by the waistband. Eames gives a laugh and lets himself be pulled forward then puts his hands on Arthurs hips and swings him upwards.

Arthurs legs wrap almost automatically around Eames’s waist as Eames’s arms pull him tighter. He dips his head for a kiss and Eames’s tongue is _there_ and eager. This is better. Better than talking. They don’t need to talk. He doesn’t need to find out just how much Eames knows about him, or what Eames might be using him for. He just needs to fuck.

Eames staggers over to the bed and drops Arthur onto it, reaching down to yank his gym shorts down. “You stink.”

“Suck it.”

“Oh I _will_ darling, I will.”

Eames’s mouth latches onto his cock with an eager ferocity that has Arthur arching off the bed, yelping up at the ceiling. It’s almost too much, and his hands flutter down to grab desperately at Eames’s head, trying to signal by hair tugging alone that Eames could probably ease up the pressure. Eames gives a deep moan around his cock, digs his hands into Arthur’s arse, and sucks harder.

Arthur sees sparks behind his eyes and wonders if maybe he’s going to die like this.

He has no idea how long it lasts, but just as his shouts let in a note of genuine pain Eames stops, and Arthur’s cock falls out of his mouth with a wet pop. Arthur gives a shuddering sob of relief and desperation, but he doesn’t have much time to recover before Eames sits heavily on his chest.

“Still alive there, darling?”

“W-what?”

“Good, good. Keep still now.”

Eames pulls out a condom and Arthur watches with a slight whimper as it’s rolled down his already sensitive dick. Eames’s hand disappears behind himself while his other hand slips into a fist and rubs hard and uncompromisingly against the point of Arthur’s left nipple until there are tears in his eyes.

“F-fuuuck Eames.”

“Too much?”

“F-far too much.”

“Shall I stop?”

“Don’t you dare…”

Eames bends down to give him a chaste little kiss on the lips, and then his head bends further to bite down on the sensitive little nub and, as Arthur arches and yells out hoarsely, the tight rasping heat of his arse clamps down around Arthur’s cock.

Then Arthur knows he’s going to die. He's going to die  _right here_ and Eames's arse has killed him.

 

**Eames**

I don’t know what it is about students, but I’ve never liked them. I think it’s because I wasn’t one, despite the fact that everyone expected me to be. But I was dancing my arse through ballet grades when I should’ve been doing GCSEs and so by the time everyone was going off to college I was already working. Getting up at 7am every morning for practice and filing tax returns in the afternoon doesn’t really endear you to dumb wankers spending their days snoozing in a lecture hall before hitting the clubs. I wouldn’t mind so much if there wasn’t some unspoken agreement between everyone in the world that somehow it makes you both more intelligent and superior as a person to spend three years with a thumb up your own arse instead of working like mad every hour.

I’m already going off Arthur a bit what with his turning out to be rich and posh instead of rough and interesting. Finding out that the little shit hasn’t even made his _bed_ doesn’t help my mood at all. At least he doesn’t have any obnoxious posters on the wall. Just a weird montage of museum shit featuring mostly naked dudes. It’s pretty cute actually, but not cute enough to get him off the hook.

He wants a rough chav to fuck? He’s damn well getting one.

I lift him up and kiss him, and just the taste of his tongue in my mouth turns a lot of the sulky anger in me in to general eager horniness. I chuck him onto his unmade bed and get that cock into my mouth – only remembering when it’s halfway down my throat that I probably should’ve wrapped it first. Ah well, too late now. It tastes fucking fantastic what with him not even bothering to shower before his booty call and I can’t get enough of it. It’s also enough to remind me that the guy is loud. Still, it’s student digs – nobody should be surprised to hear sex noises.

I keep my mouth on his cock until he’s practically crying, then sit on his chest and get ready for phase 2. He’s a fighter, he can handle it. I give his nipple a bit of a roughing over while I do, just to see how he takes that. He takes it pretty bloody well all things considered.

It makes something desperate and eager uncoil in my gut, just watching him fall apart like this. Because I know this is a part of him that nobody ever gets to see – not his rich American dad, or his grumpy mate Cobb. It’s not something you can find on his student facebook page, or Yusef’s little folder. This is something that’s coming out only here and now, only for me.

Anyway. Time to get to it.

I slide myself down onto his cock with an eager groan, picking up where we left off after being so rudely interrupted in my changing room. His eyes roll up and I grit my teeth and don’t give his cock a moment to recover before I start rocking my hips, dragging it in and out of me. It’s my cock now, and I’m using it exactly how I want it, while he screeches and claws at the ceiling, catching me with his nails on the way down.

Oh, so you want it _rough_?

I wrap my arms around his waist and lift it slightly, pushing him back so I can bounce in his lap, pinning his arms to his sides. Usually I’d be well up for a good clawing, but there isn’t much that my costume covers and I’m not sure the Lead Swan is meant to turn up looking like he’s just lost a fight with a tiger. He’s still crying out and gasping and there’s a few tears leaking out from the side of his eyes. I reach forward and kiss them, tightening my arse as much as it will go and bouncing down harder, “You look fucking beautiful darling.”

“O-ooww … f-fuck you…”

“No scratching, I’m performing tomorrow.” I let his hands free and they grab at my hair, yanking it back hard as I fuck his cock raw. I’ve got enough leg strength to keep up riding him until he cums, clutching at me and sobbing for breath, his eyes rolling up into his head.

I gently lower him down onto the mattress, yanking my arse away just to watch his body do one last pained spasm before I take the condom of his cock. I tie it neatly and walk over to the waste-bin to drop it on top of a sad collection of empty pot-noodles.

He gives a weak sort of groan and I come back over, standing over his face and fisting my cock. “Open up.”

“Fuck that.” he reaches a hand out to slap me away and pulls himself up into a sitting position. I stand there, cock in hand, watching to see how he wants to do this. If he tells me to fuck off, I’ll be wanking onto his doorhandle, I can tell you that.

Instead he stares at me for a few moments, then taps the bed. “Come here. On all fours.”

I’m not going to argue with that. I get up on all fours, facing away from him. I hear him rustling around behind me and then a hand presses on my arse, so lightly it makes me jump. I’ve got no idea what to expect from him, to be honest, given this is the first time I’ve been around him when he hasn’t been highly sexually frustrated. Post-orgasm Arthur might be a different beast altogether.

His hand strokes lightly around his arse, as gentle as I was rough, sending little shivers all down me. “Eames … does your costume cover your arse?”

Oh fuck. Oh fuuuuuuck. I just about manage to whimper out a little “ –y-yes…”

His nails dig and slowly drag their way right down to the top of my thighs. By the time he gets there I’m fisting my dick and whimpering.

“Hands on the bed Eames.”

He’s going to kill me

He claws up the other side of my arse next and I’m just _desperate_ to touch my cock. But of course I don’t – I keep my hands flat on the bed like a good boy. His hand snaps hard and fast against the clawed up lines and then he scratches down again and fuck I’m a mess. My hands fist into the sheets and I’m gasping and squirming all over the place and finally he takes pity on me and reaches between my legs to grab my cock.

He’s not great with it to be honest. It’s the worlds sloppiest handjob but at that point I don’t care, I just need something on my dick and his hand is there. When he leans forward and bites down hard across the handprint and scratched up mess he’s made of my arse it shoots straight to my dick and I cum all over his hand.

I’m happy to stay there, arse up and face buried in what are clearly unwashed sheets. I really hope he washes them now we’ve both cum over them. He pokes me gently and I slide down and roll over, one hand reaching back to rub at the new marks on my arse, and check there’s no real injury left behind.

“Fuck.” I say it first. He’s gone quiet again, just lying there next to me like he’s not sure what to do next. Honestly, I’m not sure either. Like I said it’s the first time we’ve both been sexually satisfied in each other’s presence and it feels a bit weird.

“You’re performing tomorrow?” He asks eventually, lying next to me staring up at the ceiling.

“Yeah.”

“What time do you finish?”

Fuuuuuuuck.


End file.
